Is My Team Ploughing?
by Boudicca's Revolt
Summary: A companion piece to "The More Loving One" and "Things Once Beautiful", this story takes place 5 years after the Last Battle; it's about George's thoughts on his and Angelina's relationship. It's set to a poem by A. E. Housman, from "A Shropshire Lad".


Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any related characters. They belong to JK Rowling. The poem, _Is My Team Ploughing" _is from A.E. Housman's _A Shropshire Lad._

"_Is my team ploughing,  
That I was used to drive  
And hear the harness jingle  
When I was man alive?"_

George stepped through the doors, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dark, smoky pub. It had been a long time since he'd set foot there, around four years in fact. He made his way to the bar and sat down, slapping down a couple of sickles. "Pint?" the barkeep asked. George nodded. He looked around the room. It was full tonight . . . tonight. "It's been packed since four," the barkeep said, setting the frothy liquid in front of the red head. "I guess it's to be expected. Did you lose someone?" George nodded, rubbing his thumb down the side of the sweating glass. The larger man didn't push further and walked down the bar toward another customer.

Yes, George thought, he had lost someone that night . . . more than someone. He took a large gulp of his brew and wiped a stray tear from his eye. It had been a long five years, the hardest five years of his life. The ever-present ache in his heart became more acute as he thought back. Five years ago, to the day, to the hour . . . it had all changed. All of his grand plans for the future had crumbled before his eyes. In a blink, the topography of his life was forever altered, replaced with an endless stream of guilt, "what-ifs" . . .

The hardest thing, by far, was moving forward. With ever step he took into the future, he took one step away from Fred. The shop was flourishing, guided by a surprisingly savvy Ron. He, George had fallen back into the swing of things but without the gusto he had once had. He didn't think he'd ever be as passionate about anything as he was when Fred was alive. But, as much as his attitude was altered, things had stayed pretty much the same, the business adapting far better than he was able to personally.

"_Ay, the horses trample,  
The harness jingles now;  
No change though you lie under  
The land you used to plough."_

He could sometimes, if even just for a moment, forget that Fred wasn't there and that the current reality wasn't always the reality. Though Fred was the foundation on which the shop stood, things had moved on beyond him, had left him a memory, a lineage, but little more.

George glanced down the bar and caught sight of an older man, hair gray and dirty. Great, bulbous tears were falling down his nose into his small glass of firewhiskey. His lips were moving, but no sound was coming out. "His son died at the Battle of Hogwarts; boy was only eighteen," the barkeep was saying to a distraught looking young woman a few steps away. "Old Ernest can't seem to move past it; comes in here almost every day."

"That's terrible! My sister died that night and my father has never been the same."

"There's nothing worse than losing a child," the barkeep replied, shaking his head gravely.

The person who said that clearly didn't have a twin, George thought savagely. He put his head in his hands. He wished he could weep like Old Ernest but he'd spent all of his tears.

"_Is football playing  
Along the river shore,  
With lads to chase the leather,  
Now I stand up no more?"_

The sound of the Wizard Wireless buzzed on. The Chudley Cannons, for the first time in a hundred years, had won the World Championship . . . Fred had never lost hope in the Cannons. George had always been a rather skeptical supporter and probably would have turned his allegiance elsewhere, maybe the Magpies, if it hadn't been for Fred. Ron would be happy . . .

"_Ay, the ball is flying,  
The lads play heart and soul;  
The goal stands up, the keeper  
Stands up to keep the goal."_

Ginny was fully professional now, the Harpies' best scorer. She was in line to be captain next season and she and Harry would be married in June. Fred had never gotten a chance to see her play. Sure, he'd played with her at home and at Hogwarts but he would have liked to see his little sister play in the big leagues. They had always thought it would be Charlie . . . "Another please," he gestured at his empty pint and the barkeep took it and refilled it. Ron had even convinced him to join an amateur league; they weren't half bad but he and the other beater never seemed to be quit in sync.

He looked behind him and saw a group of men around his age. They raised up small glasses and kicked them back, their faces set with grim determination. "I'll be damned if I remember this bloody day," one of them muttered, reaching for another shot. He recognized one of them as the younger Creevey brother. It just wasn't fair; it wasn't fair at all. "Did you go to the Remembrance Ceremony at the Ministry?" another asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"What a load of political shit!" the Creevey boy replied, slamming his glass on the table. "As if any of us need any help remembering!"

"Elections are coming up though. They're just trying to drum up support."

"Don't give a fuck what they're trying to do. It doesn't change the fact that they're shit."

"True."

The men fell silent, fiddling with their glasses. George turned back to his own drink. Politics and games seemed so silly now.

"_Is my girl happy,  
That I thought hard to leave,  
And has she tired of weeping  
As she lies down at eve'n?"_

The door opened, revealing a man in a long, dark cloak, the light from the outside street briefly illuminating the dingy room. The ring on George's finger glittered. Its weight was still unfamiliar. He stroked it lightly with his thumb. "Does the Mrs. know you're out?" the barkeep asked jovially. George nodded and averted his eyes.

"The Mrs." . . . it still seemed so strange that he had a "Mrs." It had happened almost by accident. They had clung to each other out of sadness and desperation, their thoughts continually directed upwards. Their meetings had been therapeutic, especially needed after George started back at the shop. She was the only one who really understood . . . In those last few months, she had spent as much time with Fred as he had. He couldn't pinpoint a time when things had changed. It almost felt like one night they were friends and the next they were married.

"_Ay, she lies down lightly,  
She lies not down to weep:  
Your girl is well contented.  
Be still, my lad, and sleep."_

He wasn't sure what Fred would say . . . On one hand, he hoped that Fred would have approved, would have wanted someone to comfort both he and Angelina. On the other . . . well Fred had always been a bit territorial. He had loved Angelina as George had never seen him love another. He had listened to her more than he had listened to any other and she was the one he missed most when the two of them had gone into hiding.

But there was nothing doing now. Fred was gone, Fred was gone, Fred was gone. He still woke up some mornings thinking that none of it had actually happened. Then he would roll over and there she was, sleeping in _his _bed and he remembered. He felt guilty that, if he had it in his power, he would give up Angelina in a second if he could get Fred back. Then again, he knew that she was settling for the lesser twin. Theirs was a marriage of catharsis. Yes, he loved her and she him but he would never have a normal marriage, not with the memory of his twin like a millstone around his neck. She would never love him as she had loved Fred and he would never love her as Fred had loved her, with such freedom and abandon.

"_Is my friend hearty,  
Now I am thin and pine,  
And has he found to sleep in  
A better bed than mine?"_

Life, on the whole, was getting easier though. He could rejoice in every day occurrences now. He cracked a smile, laughed. He and Angelina were enjoying marriage as much as could be expected. In fact, she had _news _to give him when he got home. He had been in a big family long enough to know what _news _from your wife meant. But, as much as people assured him that things would all go back to normal with time, life would _never_ get back to _normal. _Not for him, not for Angelina. Fred was their bedfellow and would probably always be. Maybe they both knew that, maybe that was why they did it, to save a little of Fred. Sure, it was unhealthy, sure it was abnormal. But it was reality . . .

"_Yes, lad, I lie easy,  
I lie as lads would choose;  
I cheer a dead man's sweetheart,  
Never ask me whose."_

On their wedding night, she had called him Fred. She had cried it and he, for a few brief moments could imagine that he was just a bystander, that Fred was actually there. They had been the most glorious moments he'd had in a long time. But then reality kicked in and he resigned himself once more to his more reserved, muted existence. He was living, yes and, with any luck, his obituary would say he'd lived a good, long life: husband, father, entrepreneur but it no longer had the potential for greatness. He had lost too much of himself that night, that night five years ago when everything changed.

He finished his pint and set it lightly on the bar. He collected his cloak and left a tip for the barkeep, who was getting very good business that night. His eyes swept the room once more . . . so many mourners, their guilt and sorrow written plainly across their faces. Hovering above them you could almost see the ghosts of those who had gone before, almost physical, almost tangible and wholly haunting.

The street was dark by then, the last rays of sun disappeared behind the distant hills. He pulled on his cloak even though it wasn't cold and traveled home. Angelina would be waiting with dinner and news. Life would go on, almost as if nothing had happened, guilt and memories the only things that kept the dead from floating away entirely. They would go to the Burrow on Sunday to celebrate Victoire's fourth Birthday. Soon it would be his and Angelina's child they were celebrateing. A new year, a new month, a new week, a new day in one inexorable line, forever and ever.

A/N: I hope you liked this, though I know it's a bit depressing. I was kind of interested in Angelina and George's relationship and then I heard this poem and it was absolutely perfect; I've been listening to a lot of Ralph Vaughan Williams lately. It's supposed to be a companion piece to both "The More Loving One" and "Things Once Beautiful". Anywho, REVIEW, REVIEW, REVIEW!

Thanks a bundle,

Liz


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